A Gathering of Fennel
by Sevilodorf
Summary: On the borders of the great forest of Mirkwood, ancient knowledge is used to combat the forces of Darkness.


**A Gathering of Fennel**

Sevilodorf

April 2005

The Eastern Borders of Mirkwood 

_3012 TA_

Dulce pressed a hand to the middle of her back and eyed the lowering sun judiciously. Time enough to gather another basket before heading home. If Marsa had been well enough to help harvest, the task would already be complete.

"Aye, and if pigs had wings, they might fly."

Pursing her lips at the likelihood of either flying pigs or her sister turning a hand to any tiresome chore, Dulce looped her collecting basket over her arm and returned to the stream bank. She had marked this spot at Midsummer's Eve when she and Herbmistress Iolanthe cut sprays of the wispy fennel to hang about the doors of every dwelling in the village. Close enough to do a good day's harvesting and still reach home before dark; yet not within the boundaries of lands assigned to anyone else by the Council of Elders.

If ever fortunate enough to attract a husband, Dulce would wish to have a place such as this, with the stream bubbling merrily across the clearing. Though the forest loomed closely upon all sides, the space could be expanded by dint of a bit of hard labor. Unlike Marsa, the thought of work did not frighten her, especially when that effort would lead to a place she could name as her own. She began to entertain herself considering the best placement for a house and byre; but it was not long before she set aside her daydreaming.

"Indeed," she muttered, brushing dark hair from her eyes, "not only pigs, but cows and horses must sprout wings before I find a suitor."

Chances for achieving the one goal appropriate for a maiden waned with each passing season. Not that she was unattractive or of an unpleasant disposition, though Marsa had more than once received the sharp edge of her tongue. And while true that having reached the advanced age of twenty-seven Dulce was well past the first blush of youth, the problem was one of supply.

Seldom did a month go past in which word did not filter through the settlements huddled beneath the eaves of the Mirkwood of another man, or even an entire family, fallen to some evil creature. 'Twas said, the Lords of the Wood had come forth after long years of seclusion to join with the men of lake, wood and dale to combat the spreading shadows, yet the losses continued. Several smaller villages had abandoned their holdings and retreated to the relative safety of Esgaroth or Dale.

Thanks to Iolanthe, that fate would not to befall Ran-tathren. Not so long as the herbs the woman utilized retained their powers. With a determined nod, Dulce focused her energies upon slicing the dried seed heads from the stout stems. Tomorrow she would ready the seeds for drying. By the end of the month they would be ready to stuff into every keyhole as an additional layer of protection against the evil spirits whose strength would increase as the days grew shorter. Any surplus gathered would be used to create one of several potions and tonics.

Pulling aside one stand of bright green stems, she froze, then sank to her knees in wonder. A small circle of late bloomers huddled close to the ground, their bright flowers gleamed gold amidst the faded petals of their taller, elder sisters. Shyly, Dulce touched a feathery leaf, inhaled deeply and sank into the warm memory of a long ago summer. The sweet fragrance held her enthralled until a squelching footstep broke the spell. Clutching her short bladed knife, Dulce held her breath and only dared move her eyes in an attempt to see who walked nearby.

"We mean thee no harm, good lady. Wilt thou emerge from thy bower?"

'Twas a strangely melodic voice reminding Dulce of birds trilling in a summer sky; but she remained upon her knees and pressed her lips tightly together to prevent a reply from bursting free.

"She is frightened, Lithnar, and rightly so. No maid should be a-wandering alone so nigh to evening."

No birdsong accompanied these words, only the sharp edge of disapproval.

Abandoning her position, Dulce gathered her skirts and, being careful not to spill her basket, rose. Back straight and knuckles white upon her knife, she turned; only to almost fall to her knees again.

Before her stood one of the Fair Folk. No being possessing such a countenance could be other than a Lord of the Wood. For a long moment, all Dulce could do was to stare in silent awe.

"Have pity, Lithnar. Wave a hand before her face and snap her out of it, or we'll be here all night. Lord Morgaran wants us back before moonrise."

Dulce jerked as if slapped and became aware of the man standing alongside the elf. Weariness drew deep lines upon a youthful face, and the tightness about his dark eyes told a tale of worry and dread.

Squashing an urge to reprimand the young man for his rudeness, she lied blithely, "I am not alone, sir. My father is no further than the edge of the woods."

With a sardonic lift of an eyebrow, the stranger replied, "Would you call to him then, if you please? So that I might beg the pleasure of an introduction."

Her falsehood put to a test it could not pass, Dulce flushed, but declined to speak.

"Peace, Rince." The elf's gentle words flowed like honey. "Forgive him, lady, he has not slept for two days; and it makes him a bit irritable."

"Make no excuses for me, Lithnar," the man said stiffly.

The elf gently said, "Then need none made for you," which brought Dulce a carefully hidden feeling of satisfaction as the man accepted the rebuke with a nod and turned to her with a low bow.

"Forgive me. As my companion says, I am weary. It is out of fear for your safety that I speak so harshly. Evil lurks within the woods these days; and it is not wise for anyone to wander alone."

"Nothing would attack me here," Dulce replied, pointing to the fennel standing guard about them. "Nothing of evil may come within yards of these plants."

Again the woman felt strangely satisfied for the man did not dispute her words, but asked, "How know you the knowledge of the old times?"

"Iolanthe of the village of Ran-tathren is an herbmistress of much renown. She keeps our men and village safe using the powers that dwell within the plants."

"Iolanthe." The elf repeated softly to himself, and the eyes of the humans turned to him in question. With a smile that spoke of memories long forgotten, he said, "I knew an Iolanthe. Many seasons ago, she roamed the woods as freely as an elf and sought to learn those lessons our ladies would teach."

Dulce responded uncertainly, "She sometimes speaks of walking with the Ladies of the Woods, but she is much too old for you to have known as a maid, sir."

"The years pass swiftly for your race, child. Pray carry my greeting to her. Tell her Lithnar of the Woodland Realm wishes her peace and happiness."

"Most willingly, sir." Dulce hesitated, then continued anxiously, "If I might be so bold, what errand brought you here? Master Rince spoke of a meeting at moonrise. Are there evil things about that would bring trouble to my village?"

"Calm thyself, lady. No evil sightings have we made. The wards set by Iolanthe hold true. Our errand is much the same as thine." Lithnar nodded toward the basket upon her arm and to the flowers at her feet. "Wilt thou share thy bounty? Rince requires a small supply of golden fennel blossoms."

Without a word, though her curiosity was palpable, Dulce stepped aside to leave the way clear for the elf to pluck several flowers. He offered them to the reticent Rince, who crumpled the petals and held them in the palm of his hand. Eyes closed, he recited three times:

"Apple, mayweed and waybread,

Against the evil hand.

Fiddlewood, nettle and cress

Against the evil eye.

Mugwort, fennel and chervil

Against the evil breath."

Lifting the crushed blossoms, Rince inhaled deeply, then placed them within a pouch hanging from a leather thong about his neck. Lifting the amulet to his forehead, he repeated the rhyme thrice more and turned in a slow circle staring intently into the trees.

"Well, my friend, what dost thou see?" the elf asked after the man completed a second circle.

"Nothing of evil." Releasing a deep breath, Rince faced the elf and held up a hand to shield his eyes. "Though as I am once again dazzled by the light of thy spirit, I know the spell is replenished."

The elf laughed merrily and much of the tension left Rince's face as he smiled.

"Spell?" Dulce repeated. "Of the old times? One that allows you to see hidden evil? How does one make the charm?"

"Aye. Gifted to me by my mother's mother. I regret I know little of its particulars save that ever and anon I must, as you have witnessed, renew the herbs." Rince tucked the pouch inside his shirt, and replied soberly, "It is my hope the power of the charm will last so long as I have need of it. My thanks, lady. Forgive me if I misspoke before."

"'Tis forgotten, sir," Dulce answered with a shy smile.

"Now, lady, pray excuse us, my Lord Morgaran has need of Rince's keen eyes." Gentle concern filled the elf's voice. "Wilt thou reach thy home before nightfall?"

With a start, Dulce realized how far the sly sun had lowered, but said, "Aye, if I hurry."

"Then we will delay you no longer." Lithnar led the way along the path to where stood Dulce's large gathering basket. "Remember my message to Mistress Iolanthe."

Dulce marveled at how musical the ancient woman's name sounded when spoken by the elf and hastily slipped the straps of the basket over her shoulders. "I will, sir. Good-bye."

With a bob of her head, she hurried away. At the point where the path led beneath the dark branches of ancient forest, she paused and turned to watch the green-garbed figures vanish into the forest. At the final moment, one lifted his hand in a farewell salute.

Dulce sighed and shrugged the basket to a more comfortable position before continuing on her way. She would save the first telling of her meeting with the strangers for Mistress Iolanthe's ears alone. The herbmistress might know more of the charm carried by Rince; and maybe upon receiving Lithnar's greeting, the woman could be persuaded to tell again the stories of her youth. This time the tales would have a new meaning.

_Author's Note: Inspiration for this is owed to Sillimarilli and Brother Cadfael's Herb Garden by Talbot and Whiteman. _

_From: **Lacnunga: Woden's Nine Herbs Charm** appears dates from around the 10th- or 11th-c._

It stands against pain, stands against poison,  
has might against three and against thirty,  
Against devil's hand and against deception,  
Against the witchcraft of the wicked ones.

_These nine herbs have power against nine horrors._


End file.
